Thinking With Your Feet

Oompah-oompah-tra-la-la! Who doesn’t love a parade? The marching bands, the beauty queens, the veterans, the beauty queens, the reserves, the beauty queens … hey, wait a minute. I detect an oddly disturbing pattern here. And I’m not talking about the Shriners’ mini-car figure eights (although, more on that later).

What is a parade anyway? The dictionary’s first two definitions are: 1. ostentatious or pompous display; 2. a military display or assembly. The term was first used in English in1656, borrowed either from the French word parade "display, show, military parade," or from the Italian word parate "a warding or defending, a garish setting forth," or from the Spanish word parada “a halt, a stop or an assembling for exercise.” All of which derive from the Latin parer "prepare.” But, prepare for what exactly?

Why, war of course – at least in theory, according to most sources. The parade, also known as a “marchpast” was originally a military maneuver used in ancient Rome, largely as a “diplomatic” maneuver – to essentially scare the bejesus out of your enemies. Among the oldest forms of saber rattling, it kept the oppressed in their places and bent adversaries to your will. Skip a few dozen centuries forward and witness the politics-shaking power of Nazi rallies and Soviet cold war exercises through Red Square and you get the basic idea. Our guns are bigger than your guns, and other phallic pissing contests (in the rain).

Although most parades in history’s steel-toed marching timeline were of military nature, religious processions have also been snaking through town for millennia (which bring us back around to the Shriners, but not just yet). Domini, patri, pareri. Preparing for what, precisely? Armageddon? The second coming? A sale at Macy's? Read into that as you may. But you don’t see the Pope these days so much on American main streets.

Today, in the separation-of-church-and-states, we retain mostly the vestiges of the parade’s militaristic regalia. The person chosen to lead the parade is the Grand Marshal. The bands wear military uniforms (although, ill-fitting and overly-starchy, they seem more humiliating than intimidating). And we cannot discount the power and significance of the snare drum (in military endeavors and firing squads, equally) not to mention the xylophone.

And what about the baton? Today’s baton twirler was originally a rifle twirler to the front of the marchers. The rifle was then switched for a "mace" often wielded by the "Drum Major." In the late 1930s the Majorette made her debut. And perhaps that’s when parades found their feminine sides.

In today’s parades (Charlottesville's Dogwood Festival a goose-steppingly good example), men are soldiers and women are beauty queens, from Miss Virginia down to the tarted up wee-miss tots, many wearing more rouge than a ten dollar hooker. Yes, we do have our counter culture Rollerderby Dames, Critical Mass and the stalwart peace contingent. But the dominating steady alternation of weapon wielding men and scantily clad women gives one pause (or parada, if you’re Spanish). Tanks, tanks tops, spangled banners, spandex, bazookas and boobs. Don’t we have something better to celebrate? And what does it have to do with dogwoods – other than the obligatory spring-themed beauty-in-bloom faux-monarchy queens and princesses Pepsi pageant and Vietnam Memorial Rededication?

Sure, it’s a great opportunity get the kids out in the fresh air for a fresh taste of community solidarity. But, why do we cheer on these gender stereotypes as they bounce on by, as we clap with Pavlovian melody, chomping our pink cotton candy and pretzels like gleeful baboons? Speaking of gleeful baboons, what’s with the Shriners?

Who let this quasi-religious, old man’s fraternity into the marching mix? These stepchildren of Freemasonry, with their testosterone, Temples and Turkish Fez’s are practically a parade staple. I haven’t been able to find out the origins of the tiny cars. But I was able to exhume the memory of a Shriner’s go-cart plowing into the crowd at the 2002 Dogwood Parade, breaking the ankle of a 5-year-old and injuring his mother. (And they’re still invited back.) Keep your distance and thank them for the children's hospitals.

Allow me to keep my cynicism in check. Indeed we are a culture without significant social rituals. So, why pull down this seemingly mild charade of civic militarism, sexism, pomp and circumstance? Here in Charlottesville, it is our milder Mardi Gras, our fluffernutter to a better mind's Bread and Puppet. But it is what we make of it. So let’s make it more. Next year, endeavor to enter your own contingent in your neighborhood's march.

A few possible organizational/float themes (remember to register by mid-February): Obamaniacs, No-Petrol Push Mower Brigade, Bulb Swap Hip Hop Dancers, Domestic Abuse Survivors of Nearby Counties and five city blocks of Zombies on Xanax. See you on the sidelines.